Summer Cowboy

Chapter 2

August 4

Umby’s a handsome man. Thirty-nine, with ginger hair; the only redheaded Latino on the planet, I decide. Physically fit. Green eyes. He’s half Puerto Rican and half Irish. Talk about a Heinz 57 variety type of man. Born and raised in Pittsburgh. He’s definitely over six-two and thin. There’s no bulk about him. No fat. Although he’s a good-looking man, he rarely shaves. There’s unmanageable reddish scruff around his chin and numerous spots on his cheeks. Think many freckles on his face. Think a sexy Ed Sheeran.

Today, following his session at Harold’s house, Umby crosses the street and sits down beside me on the top step in front of my Cape Cod.

He smiles at me. Something tells me that if he were single, we’d be a couple, liking me a little more than his husband knows. Umby takes in my one hundred sixty pounds and five-eleven frame, brown eyes, wavy and sandy brown hair, cleft in chin, one dimple on my right cheek, and tiny nose. I’m more of a scarecrow than a man, in my opinion. Thirty-eight years and nothing more than minimal layers of stuffing. There’s no lightning bolt scar on my forehead. I don’t have lasers streaming out of my eyes. My looks can be worse, of course.

He says, “Rough day. Harold doesn’t even know who I am.”

“I know who you are.” I quickly fetch us beers from inside. It’s almost one hundred degrees out, and he needs to cool down. After passing him the beer, I play, “What’s your name again?”

“Fucker. That’s not funny. The poor man is losing his mind. I give him less than a year before his brain becomes a serving of mashed potatoes.”

“Like everyone else on this planet, Harold isn’t going to live forever. It’s no surprise, really. I think everyone in the Keller family knows this.”

“I guess you’re right.”

I ask him how Craig, his husband, is doing.

“He’s fine. He needs to retire. All he ever does is work. The man rarely pays attention to me. We have enough money to go anywhere and do anything we want in the world, but he chooses to work. It gets old after a while.”

I ask him about the poodles.

“They bark too much. The backyard is loaded down with their s**t. Craig refuses to clean it up. And I won’t do it, either. I guess I’ll have to hire a junior high kid to get the job done.”

He makes me laugh. I ask him if his ex-wife still bothers him for money on a daily basis.

“She does. Not that I can give her any.” He adds, “If she’s not asking for cash, I hear all about her horny baseball player and his massive d**k. It pisses me off.”

I want to chuckle, but don’t. Instead, I rub a palm along his spine and tell him, “Try to ignore her. You have a good life with Craig. And you’ll have a better life when Craig retires, or works less.”

“Thanks for letting me vent, buddy.”

“It’s why I like talking to you and…”

Jobe Rider, the summer cowboy who’s staying across the street during August, breaks our conversation. Silence follows, growing between us. The rancher pulls up in his burnt orange, four-door Ranger truck and parks in front of Harold’s Tudor. The Ford has dents all over its doors, severely rusted in many places. How Jobe manages to drive it from Stockton County, Oklahoma, to Pittsburgh, is beyond my thinking. The muscular man climbs out of the truck in a too-tight T-shirt the color of the sky and skinny jeans. He holds two plastic bags of groceries from a quick trip to the local market. Eggs, bread, milk, and other provisions are in the almost-transparent bags.

Both Umby and I watch him close the driver’s side door of his truck.

Jobe, as if he knows we’re watching him, turns to us, and calls out in his country drawl, “Gentleman, how’s it going?

The bulge in his denim-covered crouch attracts me: plump and long, porn-stuff. Probably just as big as Gage Marsden’s. I can’t stop looking at the thing.

“Great belt buckle,” Umby whispers beside me.

He’s right. The silver buckle is shaped like the state of Oklahoma: six inches long, three inches wide. It’s huge. A cowboy riding a bull is embossed on its metal surface.

“Hot thighs, too,” Umby continues to whisper. “Jesus, he’s a god.”

He’s right again. On both accounts. Jobe has muscular and meaty thighs, which whet my appetite. The cowboy is a god.

“You’re married,” I remind Umby.

He waves at the cowboy. “I would cheat on Craig in a f*****g second if the summer cowboy seduced me,” he teases.

I wave at the cowboy: upraised right arm, flick of wrist. Maybe the wave is too feminine. Damn. “Umby, you’re faithful until your end. I know this.”

“f**k you,” he says.

The cowboy can’t hear our chatter. Thank God.

Jobe places the two bags of groceries in the truck’s shade, semi-beneath the driver’s door. He crosses the street and steps up to our twosome. He tips his cream-colored Stetson cowboy hat, proving he’s a gentleman. “It’s damn hot today, boys.”

I about die when he pulls his T-shirt off. Things happen between my legs that shouldn’t happen on a summer afternoon. I die and go to heaven. Jobe Rider is some kind of beautiful angel who has been dropped out of the clouds for my personal use.

Umby says, “It’s almost one hundred out.”

“Feels like back home,” Jobe replies, holding his balled-up shirt in his left hand.

I offer him a beer during my eye-opening study of his bare skin: a plane of V-shaped and sculpted chest, two large n*****s, big pecs, and the narrow trail of blond hair that steers southward bound beneath his navel. Huge belt buckle again. Brown leather belt. Snug jeans. Size eleven cowboy boots. Simply delicious all over. Everything a summer cowboy should be made of on Shelton Street.

He shakes his head. “Don’t really like to drink on hot days like this. Doesn’t do me well. I get a little tipsy too fast.”

I think I can do him well.

Umby says, “You’re grandfather’s napping. He fell asleep during Judge Judy.”

“You work hard, Umby. Thanks for all your help,” the cowboy says. He raises a bicep-inflated arm and massive hand to his Stetson. Again, he provides a hat-tip.

“It’s my job,” Umby says, smiling.

Perspiration forms on the cowboy’s chin, neck, shoulders, and pecs. His hairless chest shines with the heat. He tells me, “Maybe after it gets dark and cools down a little, I’ll stroll over here for a beer.”

“I like that you’re inviting yourself,” I tell him. “It means I’m not a threat to you.”

Jobe winks at me.

Umby clears his throat and says, “I should be getting home to my husband.”

Jobe says, “I want to meet him one of these days.”

I say, “I should have a barbecue for all of us. Maybe next week.”

“Perfect, Parker,” Jobe says, still flashing his pearly whites.

Umby rises from the step with his empty beer bottle. He passes the bottle to me, doesn’t take his eyes off the visiting cowboy, and says, “Yeah, perfect. In all the right ways.”

I know Umby’s being a bit raw. He passes Jobe and heads across the street.

“I need to get the groceries in the house.” Jobe nods a goodbye. “They’re sitting in the heat, which isn’t good for them.” He spins on his cowboy heels and follows Umby.

Before I know it, I’m alone on the stoop, staring at Jobe’s denim-covered ass as he walks away, heading back across Shelton. His bottom is like a shelf: bulbous, high, and firm. One of the nicest asses I have ever seen. I lick my lips. I feel hard between my legs, excited about the man. Damn, is he good-looking. My type. The things I want to do with Jobe are all immoral, wrong, and impossible not to think about. In the middle of the night, I want to: exit my Cape Cod and walk across Shelton Street, discreetly enter Harold Keller’s two-bedroom Tudor, climb the stairs to the second floor, enter Jobe’s bedroom that he’s using through the month of August, and slip between his strong legs. I want to take a sniff of his underwear-covered private parts, wake him from sleep when I have the tip his semi-hard c**k in my mouth, and strum his blond-furred ball sack with my fingers. I want to snuggle against him as he sleeps, being the big spoon in our twosome, and wake up behind him in the morning with one of my arms dangling over his solid chest. I want to smell his breath inside my mouth, taking his thick perspiration into my lungs. I want him to do sexually naughty things with me, proving he’s a rough rider and rodeo champion and…

I can’t do these things.

I won’t. At least not anytime soon, of course.

I’m a gentleman.

I simply watch, discreetly gawk, study, and scientifically absorb his every move. Hard for him. Wanting him.

It’s the only summer I can ever recall enjoying. Bless me.

* * * *

The cowboy doesn’t come over this evening for a beer. He stays across the street, inside, and watches television with his grandfather. I see two shadows on opposite ends of Harold Keller’s sofa: Harold to the far left and Jobe to the far right.

I see reruns of Murder, She Wrote.

I see the cowboy in a pair of shorts and nothing else, obviously comfortable in the heat.

Hours slip by like this.

So much television.

So much summertime heat.

By midnight, all the lights are off at 287 Shelton Street. Darkness consumes the residence’s interior. No more shadows. Nothingness.

I decide to stay up and work. Soon, I will tell you about my job. Be patient.

* * * *

The next afternoon, the fifth of August, I tell Dr. Henry Lewis all of this. Every detail. Every word my mind recalls.

“Honestly, I’m obsessed with the summer cowboy.”

Dr. Lewis is a chubby man, with no hair, glasses, and he smells like Raisin Bran. He sits across from me inside his small office on Riverdale Street in the city: one circular window the size of a pizza pan, no desk, two chairs, no books, wooden sculptures of naked, African females with small breasts and large bellies. His legs are crossed. Mine aren’t. He never takes notes. Only listens.

He scratches the side of his nose and says, “You need to leave Jobe alone. You’re out of control, Parker Rexx. Keep your head in check. Besides, you have a boyfriend.”

I roll my eyes. “Let me remind you that I have a very bad boyfriend. I can’t stand Kasey these days.”

“We’ve talked about this. You’re expecting too much from him.”

“I’m not. At least I don’t think I am.”

“Stop thinking, Parker. It’s best. You’ve committed yourself to Kasey, not the cowboy across your street. Stick with your commitments. Keep your head in your relationship with Kasey. Try to work things out with him.”

I want to listen to Dr. Lewis. Honestly, I do.

I don’t listen to him.

Probably never will.

What a waste of cash.

Therapy is s**t.